


Who Knows

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5229653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Shoot prompt: Shaw never thought she'd be considered 'expert in relationships'. But then she got together with Root...who never had a real relationship (only flings, one-night-stands or fake-dating for the sake of some scam)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Knows

The bar is tucked away on a corner at the edge of Manhattan, where the people more or less keep to themselves. Greg Davis is one of those people- sitting on a beer stained sofa jammed against an icy brick wall, drinking a pint, and puffing on his Marlboro. One of those people that keeps to himself. Usually. A single man of middle age, he isn’t terribly bright, but he isn’t terribly unsightly either. In fact, just last week his girlfriend of four years- fiancée for five months of it- severed all ties with him completely. Through the drunken film over his eyes, he sees her tight face, lips pursed and serious as ever as she glares down at him with her icy green eyes disapprovingly. Hair kept in a high ponytail; clothes only the newest and brightest and most expensive.  _God_ , he thinks to himself sourly,  _she needed the most expensive shit._

Slugging down the rest of his glass in one gulp, his head flops back against the aged sofa, and a dazed smile slowly makes its way to his lips.  _Who needs her_ , he says to himself, so intoxicated that even the voice inside his head slurs. Taking another drag of his cigarette, he looks at it, trying to calculate how many cartons he could have gotten with the money he’d spent on her engagement ring.  _Which- by the way- she never gave back._

 _Focus_ , he thinks, eyes barely able to maintain a crips image. _How many cartons could I’ve…_  he hiccups, then forgets the thought entirely. _Who needs math,_ he scoffs, laughing aloud in his drunken state. _I’m a fucking subway operator._

Letting his head droop to the side, his cloudy eyes scan the brick wall. It’s crammed with scratchy names and phone numbers, among other, less pleasant things. Suddenly, icy fingers run down the back of his neck, sobering him up just enough to snap his head in the opposite direction, eyes zeroing in on the culprit. the glass door to the bar is swung wide open, two escaping the frigid night air as they step inside. He blinks, eyelids made of lead as they scrape over sand paper eyes, and he takes them in.

The first is small, ebony hair held up in a ponytail, exposing tan skin and a black t-shirt.  _Not interesting,_  Greg decides with a yawn, gaze hopping over to the other. She’s tall and slender, dressed head to toe in black, brown hair flowing in waves down to her shoulder blades. She flips her hair over one shoulder, and he catches her vibrant smile, caramel eyes glowing with life.  _Now_  she  _is interesting._

* * *

 

Sitting up on his chair, he rests his arms on his legs, watching her. Narrows his eyes and tilts his head, taking steady, subconscious puffs from his cigarette. The two women sit beside each other at the bar, the short one flagging the barkeep down almost immediately. The tall one- _the interesting one-_  begins to speak, gleaming eyes on Ponytail.  _Ponytail_ , he snorts, tipsy enough to find anything that spews from his alcohol drowned head clever.  _I’ll call that one Ponytail._

Ponytail says something, and the taller woman laughs, again exposing a radiant smile. It’s a smile that sends the sun crashing straight into Davis’s heart, and he finds himself instantly transfixed. She leans into Ponytail a little, arms resting together until she somewhat sheepishly pulls back to her seat. He sits a little while longer, just watching. Watching.  _Two friends out for a drink,_  he thinks in a lackadaisical manner,  _seems kinda boring_. A greasy smile slicks his sickly pale face.  _Bet I can fix that._

“Sir,” a woman’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he brings his glassy eyes to her slowly.  _She’s wearing a smile as fake as the diamonds in her neckless,_ he comments internally.  _Unlike the engagement ring I got my ex. Did I mention she never gave it back?_  “I’m sorry, but this is a non smoking building.” Greg rolls his tongue over his sallow teeth loudly before coming to a lopsided stand. The entire world begins to capsize, and he leans as far to the right as possible to counterbalance it. Handing her the cigarette, he takes a shaky step forward.

“Dunnwissit annway,” he slurs out, walking with sea legs across the room. It swims in his vision, the floor rocking back and forth like a boat out in a storm.

“Sir, how much have you had to drink this evening?” She calls out to him, although her words are merely a senseless jumble of sounds to him now. “ _Sir_?”

Approaching the bar, his eyes stay steadfast on the brunette, who’s still investing every breath into Ponytail. A tick of annoyance flares in his stomach, but then he burps and realizes it was merely indigestion.

“… Come  _on_ , Shaw,” she laughs out, and Ponytail’s- _or rather Shaw’s_ \- ears go a little red.

“No, Root,” she deadpans. “No way.”  _Root_ , Greg things, the name drifting through his otherwise empty mind.  _What a name…_

Coming ever closer, he aims for a small gap between the women, ready to lay on his self acclaimed charm.  _I wasn’t engaged for five months because I’m hopeless,_ he reminds himself cockily. Yet, as smooth as he thinks he is, he missed seeing the leg of Shaw’s bar stool. Foot connecting with the edge, he trips, stumbling and falling right into the bar. Cracking his ribcage against the countertop, he wheezes.

Reflexes kick in and he throws his arms out to catch himself. For a moment, there is silence, until Greg groans, straightening up as best he can. Blinking slowly a few times and swaying in a circular motion, he turns to face Root; he finds there are two of her. _All the better,_  he grins to himself as his gaze hazily focuses until she’s alone again. Her smile is gone, brow furrowed and eyes curious.

“Hey  _baby_ ,” he greets, voice an oil slick. Her nose crinkles like the sewage has backed up, but he doesn’t seem to pay much attention. “Y'need smm comp'ney?” He drops his elbow down on the bar, resting his head in his hand as he gazes at her drunkenly.

“She already  _has_  company,” a sour voice curdles in his ears from behind, and his wry grin falters. Struggling to turn, he finds Shaw’s eyes on him. She sits with a comfortable slouch and a glass in one hand, face calm but fire in her eyes.

“I ain talkin’ bout  _friends_ ,” he responds, giving her a condescending look.  _Idiot_. Staggering back to face Root, he grins again, eyes barely keeping open. “Whad'ya say?”

“She’s  _taken_.” Greg rolls his eyes, head lolling back before he’s able to muster the strength to bring it straight again.  _Doesn’t she shut up?_  Suddenly finding himself not close enough to Root, he leans in a little closer. She backs up just the same.

Before he has time to bring himself forward another half foot, there is a hand on his shoulder. His vision blends, lights and colors blurring into a nauseating mess until the mush settles back into clarity.  _Shaw. Again._

“I said she’s  _taken_.” To make matters worse, her death grip on his shoulder only grows tighter, causing him to cringe.

“I dun see no  _man_ ,” he spits, leaning heavily on the bar for support now. The fire in Shaw’s eyes grows, making the flames of Hell look like a single match in comparison.

“Did I  _say_  ‘man’?” She snarls. Greg watches her with blank eyes and she exhales, shaking her head as if talking to an australopithecine. Gaze dead on him, she elaborates. “It’s  _me_ , genius.”

An involuntary cackle bubbles up from within him, consuming him until his entire body trembles with laughter. “Don’t  _look_  like no couple,” he giggles out, trying to regain some order. “Ain’t holding handzzer kissinner nuthin.” Shaw’s hand falls away from him- as if repulsed by the extended contact- and the pressure instantly relieves from the spot.

“Our relationship isn’t the most…  _conventional_ ,” Root responds, her mere voice making him forget every word Shaw’s said. Throwing himself 180º back to Root, the dopey smile returns to his face once more.

“Tell me ‘bout it,” he shoots back, the tactless attempt only adding to his already slimy personality. “So,” he says to her, grin dropping as he becomes as serious as a drunk man can be. He hiccups. “You wanta gettoutta here?” Root shakes her head slowly, eyes a mixture of annoyance and fatigue. Yet, before Davis’s sluggish mind has time to compute what that means, there is a pressure on the back of his skull. Fingers spread out, knotting into his hair as nails painfully dig into his scalp; then, his head is forced forward at the speed of light. His entire body is thrown in unison until his forehead connects to the countertop with a thick crack. The bar reverberates as the impact throws his head the way it came from, neck snapping back as his knees give and the hand in his hair disappears. His vision becomes blotchy before darkening completely, ears ringing and taking in water.

“Taken means  _taken_ , asshat,” Shaw snarls. The words come from a very distant place before the lights finally go out.

__________\ If Your Number’s Up /__________

 _That was the third time this week_ , Sameen Shaw fumes to herself, hands shoved roughly in her pockets as she sits behind the steering wheel of a parked SUV. Random men seemed to pour from the wood work, trying to muster up a spell binding flirt and a ticket home. Over the past three weeks alone, four men had tried with her and five with Root. Vain attempts, they both knew, but Shaw would be lying if she said there was no pleasure in telling a sorry sap to hit the road.  _Most_  of the time. Last night however, was quite the exception. They’d been taking turns handling the situations, and- perhaps if it were Root’s turn- things wouldn’t have ended as violently. Root had a way of talking them into anything she said, molding them into hypnotized lab rats before making them scurry back to the shadows.

Shaw is no such sweet talker. Irritated enough without that man’s drunken come ons, the bar episode had pushed her over the edge. She’s almost certain she broke his nose- if not his skull- and is on an entirely new level of ’ _couldn’t care less._ ’ As much as Shaw enjoys snapping a few ribs, she doesn’t care for it keeping her from an uninterrupted night with Root. In fact, all hopes for a date without interference seems futile. Single-and-Ready-to-Mingle has been so thick in the air, Shaw has choked on it many times.  _I’d rather not go out at all than deal with numbskulls that treat women like window shopping._

 _'Don’t_ look _like no couple.’_

That’s pissed Shaw off the worst by far. It appears to be a common pattern amongst their unwanted admirers.  _You don’t act like a couple_ , they all wind up saying one way or another; and Shaw partly has to agree.

She’s never been one for romance- it’s well known among her circle of friends. Hand holding, hugging, snuggling… none of these things has ever come easy to her; she’d rather stay a good mile or two away. Yet, the longer she remains around Root, the closer the ideas inch towards her.

Shaw peers to the left from the corner of her eye, taking in Root’s appearance. A scarf, a jacket shrugged off, and a large camera held up to her eye, ready to snap a photo at a moment’s notice. Shaw can recall at least a dozen times where Root had leaned into her, brushed sides or hands, each time leaving Shaw with a jolt of exhilarated adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her nerves would tingle on the spot, the overall effect like a drug, leaving her to crave the next encounter more and more. Still, they never lasted more than a few seconds, always leaving her to wonder why.

“Why are you messing around with the camera?” Shaw asks, neutral tone caught with a slight bark as the irritation from her thoughts starts to fade. “We don’t even know who we’re  _looking_  for yet.”

“We know  _who_ , just not what ’ _who_ ’ looks like,” Root responds, far too chipper for an early Sunday morning. Shaw groans, head smacking against the car seat with a dull thud.

“Photo ID’s never take  _this_  long,” Shaw sighs, closing her eyes. “Your robot overlord taking a sick day or something?” There is silence, and Shaw can feel eyes burning into the side of her head. She lets it go a moment- waiting until the heat becomes too searing to handle- before finally allowing her head to loll to the side, eyelids slowly pulling back.

Sunlight filters into her vision, casting Root in a warm glow with the hint of a halo hanging just over her head. Flecks of gold shimmer in her eyes, which Shaw almost misses, are narrowed in dry humor. Shaw feels a microscopic smile pull at the corner of her mouth as Root rolls her eyes, gazing back out the front windshield once again. Still, Shaw watches her, engrossed.

“What do you think about those guys?” Shaw asks, unsure why she’s so suddenly curious.

“I  _don’t_  think about them,” Root responds simply before turning back to Shaw. Her mouth turns up in a sly smile and she leans her elbows on the center console, coming close enough to make Shaw’s heart give a stutter. “Do you?”

“Think about  _shooting_  'em.”

Root gives a short, melodic laugh that brings butterflies to Shaw’s chest. She swallows hard, trying to force them down.

“Should we be doing something to- you know- get rid of them? Or at least make them get the hint?”

“You tell me,” Root replies, growing closer. Shaw has half a mind to back up, but knows it’s exactly what Root wants. Instead, she holds firmly to the spot, watching as Root’s eyes flicker with a mix of surprise and unexpected delight. “ _You’re_  the relationship expert.”

“ _Me_?” Shaw questions with a disbelieving laugh. “You expect me to believe that you’ve  _never_  been in a real relationship?” Root says nothing, and Shaw’s laughter fades away with the slight raise of her eyebrow.

“Surprised?” Root asks, amusement in her voice.

“A little,” Shaw admits, tilting her head in. Root’s breath comes in quickly before she stops breathing entirely, leaving Shaw with a small bubble of satisfaction rising within her. “You’re so…” She trails off, a million different adjectives swirling around her head. Each better than the last. Each yearning to escape her head. “Social,” she concludes at last, deciding Root would never let go of any other answer.

“Have you  _honestly_  ever found me a people person?” Root responds with light humor. Shaw realizes for the first time just how close they are. Inches is too big of a measurement- centimeters; hair widths. Close enough that in the total silence, Shaw can all but hear Root’s heartbeat, growing faster and faster like her own. Root’s eyes turn with a forming idea, one where Shaw already knows its endpoint, and waits for her to see it.

“No,” Shaw answers quietly, voice giving her away as a smirk tugs onto her face. Hair widths apart. Dead car and no current objectives. Waiting for it to-

 _Click_.

There is an explosion behind Shaw’s eyes as a pressure comes to her mouth and her nerves catch fire. Electricity runs through her veins, jumping her heart until it finally restarts. Then, everything blurs together. Her fingers are tangled in Root’s hair and Root’s nails are digging into her collar bone. One minute there is a center console between them, the next there isn’t, just them and the passenger seat and tinted windows. Her hand is on Root’s shoulder, then her waist, fingers toying with the hem of Root’s shirt. Root’s mouth parts for her just as she slides her hand under the fabric of her shirt, hand working its way back up. With every touch, the thoughts in Shaw’s head melt, leaving all natural anger and alien worry behind.

Root’s fingers burrow into Shaw’s shirt, nails scratching roughly against her skin as she throws herself forcefully forward into Shaw, all but slamming them both into the dash. Shaw gives a rare surprised gasp in response, and Root smiles against her, low chuckle chilling and never more sexy.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Shaw freezes, letting the voice register before she leans back, spine resting uncomfortably against the dash as the back of her head thuds against the sun visor. She keeps her eyes shut, not wanting to see the unquestionably humored grin on Root’s face.

“What do you want, Finch,” Shaw all but groans, wondering how long he’s been listening and why he had to interrupt now of all times.

“Are you in position?” He asks. Shaw’s eyes burst open at once, murderous gaze hitting Root with the force of a freight train. She can see Root’s lips fidgeting as she tries to hold back a knowing laugh; Shaw’s eyes warn her to not dare say a single. freaking. thing.

“If you mean sitting at a random subway entrance waiting for a man named Greg Davis- whose photo ID we  _don’t_  have- by being in position, then  _yes_ ,” Shaw replies, annoyance boiling in her words.

“There should be a picture of him on your phones as we speak,” he responds, and sure enough, their cells ping at the same time. Trying to be as silent and graceful as possible, Shaw shuffles back into her seat before checking the message.

She blinks. Looks again.

Familiar, greased back blonde hair and oily gray eyes greet her vision, sharp, angled face causing her vision to tint red.

“Oh, no way in  _Hell_ , Harold,” Shaw spits into her earpiece, eyes burning a hole through the screen. Her hand tightens around it as if it’s his neck.

“I beg your pardon?” He asks, slightly concerned.

“Your computer’s got the wrong photo,” Shaw deadpans, angered heat rising to her ears.

“The Machine is never  _wrong_ ,” Harold responds tightly, and Shaw rolls her tongue across her teeth.

“Then I know the threat,” she says stiffly.

“You do?”

“It’s  _me_.” The slight 'tsk’ that escapes Harold keys her into the narrow-eyed stare he’s undoubtedly sporting. He takes a moment to collect himself.

“I have faith that you will be able to put your personal opinions for this man aside in the interest of the case,” he tells her, and she snorts.

“Rather put a bullet between his eyes,” she replies, and he sighs in exasperation.

“Don’t  _worry_ , Harry,” Root chimes in with a smile. Shaw sees it and her teeth grind, sitting back into her seat, brimming with irritation. “We’ll keep him safe.”

“Unless he’s the perp,” Shaw grumbles. “Then he’s mine.”

“Fine,” Harold says after a pause, something like defeat coming with it. The line goes dead, but Shaw still shuts off her earwig for good measure.

“Speak of the devil,” Root comments, and Shaw peers over to her curiously. Lifting the camera, Root snaps a shot. “Our friend from the bar’s just shown up.” Shaw’s lip curls into a sneer at the word choice, much to Root’s pleasure.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Shaw mumbles before yanking the car door open.

__________\ We’ll Find You /_________

Root, brushing the hair out of her face with one hand, lifts her head high, keeping eyes on the back of Greg Davis’s head. He’s quick and nimble, darting through the morning crowd with expert experience.

For a second, he vanishes entirely, leaving Root’s heart to halt, stomach thrown into a free fall. She stops walking, Shaw backpedaling quickly as disgruntled pedestrians check them roughly. _Where is he, where is he, where-_

_There._

Root finds his blond hair as it bobs back into the sea of people. Grabbing Shaw’s hand, she begins pouring on the speed, watching his form become smaller and smaller.

“Ticket, please.” Root crashes to a stop, racing mind not quite connecting the dots right away. She finds her left hand on a metal bar at her waist, electronic voice clicking over again. “Ticket please.” She groans internally, air leaving her lungs as Davis escapes. Looking back to Shaw with widened eyes, she scans the area for a booth.

“Thank you,” the automated voice says, and she pushes past the bar with ease. Shaw steps up, swipes a little card, and it flashes again. “Thank you… Ticket, please…”

Shaw holds the card up before her face just long enough for Root to see. With a smirk lighting her eyes, Shaw stashes it back into her pocket, and they start off once more.

“Thanks for the help, Sam,” Root says, affection flooding her tone.

“You owe me two seventy-five.” Poorly concealing a smile, Root scans the crowd all over again, eyes glowing. Hope seems lost at relocating him through all the commotion; however- with pleasant luck- she spots him standing off to the side of the terminal. He leans against the tiled wall, one leg crossed casually over the other with sunglasses shading his eyes. Between hustling citizens, Root finds him talking with someone in a heavy black jacket, long dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail. Davis nods, movements sluggish as he brings a hand to his temple. She can’t hear what’s being said, but knows something is happening.

Waiting for a break in the crowd, she dashes to the far wall, keeping as scarce as possible on the other side of a vending machine. Shaw stands in front of it, protruding a dollar bill and feeding it into the machine. In gurgles, electric hum turning into a wail as it waits with expectancy to be in appliance. Root sends Shaw a cross glare, and Shaw gazes back at her levelly.

“Stakeouts make me hungry,” Shaw says defensively, although her face shows no sign of such emotion. Punching a few buttons, a small bag of cheese curls is spit out, and Shaw leans back to enjoy them. Rolling her eyes, Root focuses back in on their number, and her blood runs cold.

The man with the ponytail is reaching behind his back, hand slipping below a heavy winter jacket. Ruffling with his back pocket.

“Might have a gun,” Root breathes, catching Shaw’s attention as she heads forward, fingers feeling for the weapons on her waistline. The man’s hand sweeps up in one fluid motion; Root’s heart begins to pound as she withdraws her gun just a second behind until-

She stops abruptly, Shaw smacking into her from behind. With a wave of relief settling into Root’s bones, she sees him hand Davis a neon orange work vest. Davis takes it with a tight nod, and the other man grins brilliantly, giving him a hearty pat on the back before picking up a light jog. He passes by Root and Shaw, nodding at them cheerily as he goes. Root smiles back, feeling the chagrin hot on her face from mistaking the kind-hearted man for their perpetrator. Peering back at Shaw, Root finds a tight, false smile on her mouth that drops the second he’s out of sight. Feeling eyes on her, Shaw looks up, finds Root staring, and pushes past her, ears turning red. Root bites her bottom lip, trying to keep in the overwhelming adoration that pools at her feet.

“How’s the hangover?” Shaw calls out, and Greg looks up to her, head tilted to the side. He takes off his glasses slowly, revealing squinted, bloodshot eyes.

“Sorry, uh, do I know you?” He asks, tone less than personable. Root comes to Shaw’s side, eyes set on him in a studying way, and he looks her over just the same. Dawning never registers on his face. He shakes his head, bringing his hand to his forehead with a sigh. “Listen, if I owe you money or something, you’re gonna have to wait in line,” he tells Shaw flatly, taking a step back to leave.

“Exactly how many people do you  _owe_?” Shaw questions, and he stops, eyes settling on her without trust.

“Who’s asking?” He responds slowly, and Shaw’s lips purse.

“Concerned third party,” Root steps in, shooting a quick glance Shaw’s way. Greg gives the sharp bark of a cruel laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling harshly.

“I’ll  _bet_ ,” he responds sarcastically before straightening up. “So what do you  _really_  want from me?”

“To figure out who wants you dead,” Shaw answers nonchalantly, and Greg’s face pales. “Besides me,” she adds, gaze fixed cooly on her nails as she inspects them. Root swallows down a grin, heart fluttering at how calmly Shaw can slip in a death threat. Greg’s wide eyed gawk only adds to the pleasure, as she knows Shaw hasn’t even scratched the surface of masochistic. He blinks a few times, clears his throat, then returns to his mannerless disposition.

“Unless you have a Marlboro,” he says tactlessly, “I have a subway to conduct.” With that, he looks at Root a little too long before spinning smartly on one heel and heading off. Throwing the vest over his shoulders, he yanks open the conductor’s door. Looking over to Shaw with raised eyebrows that say  _'isn’t he charming?’_ , Root finds her glowering, eyes searing into the back of his skull as rage simmers on her skin.

“We should probably catch his train,” Root offers slowly, smile beaming as she keeps the delight out of her voice. Shaw’s tongue rolls over her teeth, and she nods.

“He  _better_  be the perpetrator,” Shaw grumbles before stalking off, and Root can’t help the blush that paints her cheeks as she flips her hair over one shoulder, trying to regain her poise while starting after Shaw.

___________\ Person of Interest /____________

“We are now arriving at Buhre Avenue. The last stop will be at Pelham Bay Park. Again, we are now arriving at Buhre Avenue, and our last stop will be at Pelham Bay Park.”

As the subway chugs to a slow halt, Root leans back into her chair, rolling her neck and shoulders. Her butt went numb three stops ago, and her legs are not far off. Cross, un-cross. Cross, un-cross. As the time ate away on a slow, dreary road trip to the far stretches of the city, Root found herself growing ever more bored. Shaw herself had dozed off shortly after sitting, and with the final jolt and hiss of the breaks, Shaw’s head drops heavily onto Root’s shoulder.

Root stops breathing at once, not wanting to wake Shaw- to give her a reason to move away. Root finds even her heartbeat to be too powerful, and fears that Shaw might hear in hammering and stir. The doors open, and people flood in and out like disorganized ants, packing in like sardines. There are men in suits, women with strollers, and families with cameras slung over their necks, all rushing in and scuttling out. However, after a few minutes the commotion dies, everyone settling into their places as the doors hydraulically shut once more.

“Next and final stop: Pelham Bay Park. Please do not lean on the doors while the train is in motion.”

Setting off again, Root’s eyes land on the far window, where her heart jumps to her throat. She can’t help the soft smile that creeps onto her features at seeing the reflection of herself and Shaw. As much as Root loves any moment with Shaw, she especially adores these.  The ones where Shaw is asleep, the entire day’s stoic toughness crumbling into tranquillity, and Root can just watch her. To be able to think- for the moment- that there isn’t a force in the world that could hurt her. To be able to see Shaw at her most relaxed; it’s a vulnerability that is hard to catch but breathtaking to witness.

Root’s mind does not remain focused for long, though, as thoughts of their earlier conversation crawl back to the front of her mind.

 _What was Shaw getting at about relationships?_ She wonders, eyes focusing past the reflection to a different world entirely.  _Was she expecting more out of it?_  When it comes to relationships, Root honestly has no clue, and embarrassment begins to snake down her spine. To hold her hand, or kiss her, or stay the night- all of these things and more had come to mind over a thousand times. Some days she would just see Shaw and have this overwhelming urge to kiss her. Root could look at her, the opportunity so open and Shaw so unsuspecting, and just be tempted to plant one on her cheek. And for every time that kissing crossed Root’s mind, grabbing her hand seemed to come across three times over. She could always taste the satisfaction of getting under Shaw’s skin; making her ears red and her lips twitch with poorly hidden fluster as she’d sneak her way in at the worst possible time. Still, as wonderful as it seemed, the action never left Root’s mind.

“We are now arriving at Pelham Bay Park,” the speaker crackles out, jarring Root momentarily from her thoughts. “This is our last stop northbound. Again, we are now arriving at Pelham Park.” As the spasmodic chugging begins once more, Root’s gaze readjusts to the reflection, and the last thought on her list comes back to mind: spending the night.

They’d slept together, sure, and in odder places than you might think, yet by dawn of the next  day they were most definitely in their own places. Not that Root minds it much, but the very idea of being able to watch dawn break over Shaw’s face sends a shutter down Root’s spine that she’s always forced to conceal. _Would Shaw be okay with this? Any of this?_  As much as Root enjoys getting on Shaw’s every last nerve, she is more than aware of the fine line between pushing her way in and pushing Shaw out.

“Next stop: Buhre Avenue. Please do not lean on the doors while the train is in motion.”

 _Flings, scams, and one night stands,_  Root thinks to herself with a humored sigh.  _It sounds like the title to some new Cher song_. Yet, it’s all she’d been exposed to, and it leaves her miserably in the dark. With something fake it was easy to do whatever came to mind- anything to keep the person tied around her finger. No worry about making a wrong move, because they didn’t mean much to her more than a sum or a number in the end. This though, this is different on every level. Each step has the potential to be a land mine, and the last thing she wants is to tear the whole thing apart.

The cart gives a hefty bounce, enough to make the lights flicker, and a couple of people cry out in surprise. Root is lifted from her seat before being slammed back down, tail bone groaning in pain. Gritting her teeth, she holds her stomach tight, waiting for the bruised feeling to pass. Once it does, she breathes, gaze peeking down to Shaw’s sleeping form, and her hand that lays out so innocently atop her leg.  _She’s out cold_ , Root says to herself, thoughts amounting the world’s weakest pep talk.  _It’ll be so simple for you to just…_  Root, with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon, brings her hand closer to Shaw’s, a mixture of excitement and nervousness tugging at her. Three inches, two, one, t-

“Could the women who approached the conductor earlier this morning please make their way into the conductor’s booth. If the two of you are on this train, it is important that you make your way up here as quickly as possible; thank you.” Whispers spread like wildfire through the train and fear rises like high tide amongst them. With her hand less than a centimeter away, Root drops it back to her side before nudging Shaw awake. Shaw blinks a couple of times before lifting her head, a small flame of confusion sparking in her eyes as she takes in her surroundings, and how heavily she rests on Root. “Uhm, hello? If you’re here,  _urgency_  is  _key_.”

Root jerks her head towards the shiny, metal door a few seats down from them before standing. As she does, she realizes for the first time just how fast the car is moving. She can feel the bumps and dips skimming under her feet, barely grazing them as they all but float along the tracks. The patchwork grays of the tunnels are a muddied blur, enough to make Root nearly feel sick. Swallowing, Root draws her weapons discreetly- Shaw doing the same- and they come to the door. Root, leaning her back against the cold metal of the wall, knocks with the back of her hand on the door. Before she has time to take her hand away, the door is flung open for them. Root and Shaw take a glance at one another, nod, then enter the small space.

“Thank  _God_ ,” Davis wheezes, shutting the door behind them. “I thought for a second you guys might have stayed on Third Ave.”

“What do you want, Davis,” Shaw dead pans, and he peers at her for a curious moment, undoubtedly trying to figure out how she knows his name. Then, urgency leaping back into his veins, he drops the stare, sitting back in his seat and running his lanky fingers through his hair.

“This is  _not_  good,” he mutters, voice cracking as hysteria closes in. “This is not good at  _all_.”

“ _What’s_  not good,” Shaw demands, patience draining. Root peers out the front windshield, and everything falls in on itself. Before she has time to focus on a single thing, it’s gone; train cars back. The slightest beam of light peeks out from the distance, yet- in a matter of seconds- it’s the size of a truck. It’s on top of them, blinding them. The terminal whizzes by, people blending together in a mesh of fabric colors and florescent lights. Before Root’s eyes can even become accustomed to the brightness, darkness consumes them once more.

“That was Elder Ave,” Greg mumbles in a defeated tone, and Shaw glances back to Root with a concern in her eyes that Root knows must plague her entire face.

“But we were just at Pelham Bay,” Shaw responds, and Greg runs his fingers through his hair again.

“Look at the speedometer, would you?” He all but shrieks, and the two of them lean in. The little dial is cranked up to the fifty-five, and only moves further and further up. “I’ve got  _no_  control of the  _damn_  thing,” Greg moans, throwing himself back in the chair with frustrated exasperation. Just then, there’s a screech, and sparks fly up and over the cart like a tunnel of fire, engulfing them in light as the entire train is jerked abruptly to the right. Root stumbles but regains her balance, barely able to hear the cries of the other passengers over her pounding heart. The speedometer glides over the sixty.

“Have you tried the emergency break?” Shaw asks, voice startlingly calm. Root can’t help but gawk at her, wondering how her eyes can be so ungiving of the thoughts in her head. How she can be so calm in a perilous situation, where even her voice is even. It’s one of the reasons Root’s always been so attracted to her, although it’s hard to focus on admiration as the earth jumps under her feet. She fights to keep her footing all the while Shaw hovers over Greg’s shoulder, eyes devouring every gage and switch.

“Are you  _crazy_?” He wails, voice rising two octaves.  "Thirty miles per hour? Sure. Forty-five? Okay. But  _sixty_? The people back there aren’t holding on to anything. You pull that lever, and they all  _die_.“

"Never took you for the concerned citizen,” Shaw cracks, and Greg’s eyes spark with fury.

“Not to mention we’ll turn out as pancake mix on the front windshield,” he adds, leaving Shaw’s lip to twitch up into a momentary sneer.

_‘scrrreeeEEEEEEEEEEEECHHHHHHH’_

Sparks leap back into the air as the train is thrown down another turn, this time worse than before. It’s as if the car is capsizing, the ground going vertical as it grinds across the track. Root is thrown like a rag doll across the booth, slamming into the far wall with Shaw not far behind. Shaw, who only managed to keep her balance a millisecond longer, stumbles, then crashes into Root’s chest. The breath is stolen from Root’s lungs as her head cracks against the car’s metal framework. Colorful shapes explode before her eyes as her legs turn to Jello, knees giving out as she begins to slide down the wall. As the train finally rightens itself, metallic screaming going quiet, Root hears a pained groan echoing about the cabin. After a few seconds, she realizes the sound emits from herself. Her mouth is held open in a pained 'O’, eyes wide from surprise as she sinks towards the ground.

“Root-  _hey_ \- you okay?” Shaw wheezes out, wind knocked out of her as well. Root can’t answer at first. She can only look into Shaw’s worry-rimmed eyes and feel Shaw’s fingers digging into her arms, trying to slow her descent. She feels herself touch the floor, still unable to breathe, to think, to talk.

“Fine,” she croaks out at last, body finally catching up with the world. As every sensation races back to her body, she sucks in a large gulp of air, just to find the sharp knife of agony lodged between her ribs. Coughing, she feels her heart rip in two from oxygen deprivation, skull splitting up the center.

“Don’t move,” Shaw instructs, eyes stern on Root a moment more before she makes her way back to Greg. Root’s ears ring, making everything too loud and too distorted. Her vision, too, lags, making everything blur and blend in a messy water color painting. Distantly, Root can make out the sounds of terrified yelps, but they seem worlds away. Everything is in a different galaxy, and she has to fight to keep the darkness out of the corners of her vision.

Tearing the microphone off the wall, Greg’s panicky voice fills the speakers. “Everyone please find a seat. Hold on to the handrails if possible. Anyone with a young child please be sure to hold them close.” Hanging the receiver back on the hook, he stares with haunted eyes straight at Shaw. Root watches them, trying to get a grasp on the nausea rising like bile to her throat. “We have to stop,” Greg says, and- in her sluggish state- Root can’t help but find that the most idiotic thing she’s heard all day.  _..No…Shit…._

A bolt of lightning flashes straight into her eyes, causing her skull to implode. Pain paints her vision in a bloody crimson, and she can taste its metallic tang on her tongue. It’s too bright- everything is too bright. Agony swallows her as the blinding flash forces its fingers down her throat, ripping her apart from the inside. She shuts her eyes tight, everything from her corneas to her toes searing.

“Root, keep your eyes open,” Shaw instructs, words calm but filled with an uneasy undercurrent. Reluctantly, Root peels back her leaded eyelids.

“We’re at maximum velocity,” Davis tells them, running his fingers through his hair once more. Root watches with colors bleeding together as Shaw leans in over his shoulder, swears, then braces herself against his chair. Before Root has time to question why, the car rumbles, a smell that reminds her of welding coming to her nose as she is tossed once more. She topples over, not even having the reaction time to catch herself before she smacks onto the floor, vision spinning. She tries to focus in, watching as three Shaws expand and contract like an accordion. Her head lolls down, and she begins to lose sensation in her arm, all of her weight crumpled on top of it. A migraine fills all of the available space in her head, and for some reason the world hasn’t given her back her breath.

“Root…” Shaw calls out, concern creeping into her voice as she waits for Root’s response. It takes the word a minute to travel past the sea of cotton in her ears, and a little longer for her to form the words on her numb lips.

“I’m alright,” she responds, not feeling ’ _alright_ ’ at all. Everything is filled with varying degrees of agony, and she swears her lungs have shriveled up and died. The headache becomes overwhelming and she struggles to keep her eyes open as the white flashes shoot daggers into them. Her veins throb, her head throbs, her eyes throb.

“We just passed 125th Street,” Greg says, desperation leaking from every pour. “We need to be stopped by Lexington Ave. We’ve gotten lucky this far, but if we don’t stop at that terminal, the F train is going to T-bone us. We’re all gonna  _die_.” From her stance on the floor, Root watches Shaw roll her eyes at his commentary. Past the cloudy pain in her head, Root finds herself smiling.  _The man’s in the middle of a mental crisis, and she looks ready to call him melodramatic._

Reaching over him, Shaw yanks the receiver from its holder, clicking it on. Past the blood rushing through Root’s head and the deafening pound of her heart, she entirely missed the riot going on a door away.

“Everyone listen up,” Shaw instructs calmly but forcefully into the mic. “Either you all sit down, shut up, and live, or you all die. Understand me?” In a matter of seconds, the pandemonium outside subsides to a few wary mumbles. “Hold on to something. We’re coming to a stop.” Not bothering to hang the receiver back up, Shaw kills the line, letting it bounce on it’s spiral cord at Greg’s side. In seemingly no rush, Shaw walks over to Root, sitting down at her side, back against the front wall. “Pull the emergency brake,” she commands.

Greg looks at her, bewildered.

“Haven’t you listened to  _anything_  I’ve said?” He shrieks. “We’re going too fast to-”

“Have any better ideas?” Shaw interrupts, and he freezes.

“Well,  _no_ , but I-”

“Then. Pull. It.” Lips slightly parted, the color drains from his face as he nods. His gaze comes back to the windshield, where he stares out with saucers for eyes. His trembling hand moves slowly- too slowly- up to the emergency brake, where it hovers. Shaw slides over the smallest bit, giving Root just enough room to join her. Pushing past the pounding pain, Root hauls herself into a sitting position, bracing her back and head against the wall.

The subway train screams as they are forced even closer to the front of the booth. It’s deafening and blood curling- the sound of metal grinding against metal- as the train battles against itself for control. Through the reflection on the far wall, Root watches an explosion of yellow brighten the entire cab. From the side windows, she sees sparks form tidal waves that break over them, all the while her legs and her back grow warm- she can only image how badly the onslaught of sparks is mangling the exterior.

The entire train rattles, throwing itself back and forth like a child with a temper, and Root realizes that this- right here and right now- could be it. That this could easily be the end, and she’s stuck in a lukewarm sardine can with a pounding headache and so many things left unsaid. As much as she wants to close her eyes, she can’t look away from the last thing she might ever see.

People scream, the rails scream, the brakes lock, her heart implodes, her teeth clench, her nails scratch against the ground with the sound of a chalkboard, her head splits, her lungs burn, people scream-

Her body is thrown forward, nose nearly kissing her knees, and then her back smacks against the wall once more. Everything is deathly quite. Dark. Empty.

_Am I… dead?_

“Root,” a voice whispers in her ear, but she doesn’t respond. “Root,” it says again, “open your eyes.”

She opens one; then the other. Suddenly, the darkness is replaced with the light of a bustling subway terminal, and she exhales. She hadn’t truly realized how hard her heart was beating until now, where she can practically see it slamming out of her chest. Then, all of the pain comes back, and breathing becomes once more impossible, and the lights too bright. She wants to look at Shaw but can’t, so settles for reaching towards her. Her hand slides across the floor, finds the edge of Shaw’s jeans, then stops. Finally, her heart is soothed.

Greg, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, fumbles for the mic. “E-ever-ry o-o-one. You- you can now- you can now ex-exit th-the train. P-please, n-n-new pa-passengers: get  _off_. This- this train is  _closed_.”

Shaw’s pant leg slips from Root’s reach as she stands. Root sits for a moment, trying to open her eyes farther than their current slits. She feels a hand on her shoulders, then she is being helped upright. The pressure in her head shifts as she goes, causing an explosion of pain in her skull. There is a rumbling before them like the earth is moving, and the F train shoots by in front of them, sounding off two blows of the horn as it travels by. Fifteen feet forward, and they would have been scrap metal.

“I, uh, I’d offer you both out to drinks but…” Greg trails off, and both women look at him. His sheet white face turns a sickly green as his cheeks puff out once. Twice. Bringing his hands over his mouth, he dashes from the car and out of sight. From Root’s side, she can hear Shaw chuckling.

“ _Baby_.”

Root smiles, then drops it at once, a ripple of cracks arising from the back of her jaw. Her head droops a little, eyes barely remaining open.

“I’m gonna get some air,” Shaw says to her, somehow knowing to keep her voice soft. It’s the first thing thus far that hasn’t struck Root’s head with a fatal blow. “You comin’?” Root nods slowly before starting to shuffle forward and out of the conductor’s booth. Her vision is altered slightly, lights way too bright and colors far too eccentric. “Probably have a concussion,” Shaw says, answering Root’s unspoken question. She wants to add a bruised- if not broken- rib to the list, but finds words a little too hard to find.

She staggers the slightest bit, and Shaw’s arm is instantly around her waist. It sends an electric bolt straight to Root’s heart, and her nerves begin to tingle. “What’s  _this_?” She asks, going for coy, although it comes out more like eggs-in-a-blender-trying-to-act-casual.

“Last thing I need after nearly dying is to have anyone  _else_  hit on you this week,” Shaw responds, and a thrill runs down Root’s system. She could leave it at that, she knows, but something about Shaw- _and okay, maybe the concussion_ \- brings the slightest lapse in judgement.

“Uh- _huh_ ,” she responds with a disbelieving tone, raising an eyebrow at Shaw that says she knows it’s more than just that. The corner of Shaw’s mouth pulls into a lopsided smile Root can’t quite decipher.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, although there isn’t an ounce of aggression in her body. “I’m the relationship expert, remember?” With that, she pulls Root in a little closer, squeezing her the smallest bit tighter. Pain shoots up Root’s side, spinning a dangerous web in her chest, yet she says nothing, not wanting Shaw to let go.


End file.
